More Sacred Than Home
by detective-sweetheart
Summary: “We are not going to have another shouting match in this precinct.” “Why? Because you hold this place more sacred than your home?”


I walk into the squad room just in time to hear the detectives laughing about something that one of them has said, and though I want to know what it is that they find so amusing, I cannot bring myself to ask. I am not a part of this unit, and yet I feel as if I have been married to it for the past few years. I can scarcely remember a time when I didn't feel this way. It's Saturday now, and two o'clock in the morning. All of the kids are at home, fast asleep, and they have been since around eleven-thirty. I sat up waiting, for what, I don't know, but I couldn't bring myself to sleep, and now I'm standing here in a place that I certainly do not fit into. None of the detectives notice me, and I listen to their light-hearted banter, knowing somehow that this is the way they relieve their tension when cases get too hard, or hit a little too close to home. It's begun to rain, and I look towards the windows, saying nothing as I watch the water droplets drip down the smooth glass surface. Silence has fallen momentarily between the detectives; as I look towards them briefly, I can see that they have all turned to the paperwork spread out across their desks. There is a lot of it, and I have the feeling that I will not be noticed at all unless I say something, but I cannot bring myself to speak. A part of me aches, knowing that no matter what I say, he will never be able to confide in me like he confides in those that he works with. Perhaps it's because he knows they understand what I never could…they see what he sees out there on those city streets, and I don't, nor do I want to…but I do wish that he'd talk to me.

He never does. To him, work and home are two separate things, and yet it seems to me as if work has become his home, because he's never around anymore. I resent it in some ways, and yet I know that he does this in order to bring some sort of justice to this city. At least he tells me that much. It's one of the few things he does say to me nowadays; that is, when he manages to find the time to come home. But it seems these days that minutes at home are minutes wasted when he could be working to take another criminal off of the streets. He stays long enough to do what he needs to, and then he's off again, in a seemingly endless quest to save the world…or rather, all of New York City. One can hardly blame him for it, but I have the feeling that our children are finally starting to resent him for rarely being around. They haven't said anything, so I don't really know…but it seems to be the attitude coming from them. It is almost as if they think that they have, over the years, become less important to him than someone else's kids. I wish I could find some way to dissuade them from thinking this, but even so, I know that he is the only one that can convince them otherwise…and when does he have the time? He said to me once that it felt to him as if I was the parent, and he was the paycheck; I told him it wasn't like that at all, but now as I come to think of it, I may have been lying to avoid making him feel worse than he already does about rarely being home.

The caseload wasn't nearly as bad at the beginning as it is now. It was a joint decision between the two of us when he decided that he wanted to come into this unit, and now I find myself regretting my decision to go along with everything. Part of me just wants to leave and never come back again, but the rest of me is saying that I should stay and try to work things out. I've been trying…but it never seems to work. My questions about what he's up to always seem to lead to fights. He'll go storming out of the house to come back to the precinct, and I'll find either Elizabeth or Kathleen huddled underneath the covers in their bedrooms. They'll be trying to act as if it had no effect on them whatsoever, but the tearstains that mar their faces are always a dead giveaway. Dickie always claims that he couldn't care less one way or the other, and I'll pretend to believe him, but I really don't…soon after he tells me all of that, I can hear him trying to convince Elizabeth that everything will be just fine. She doesn't seem to believe what he says either, and I hate the fact that all of this has such an impact on them. Maybe one day it'll end, and things really will be ok, but as far as I know right now, the situation at home is as volatile as a lion…completely unpredictable.

I can hear voices begin to start up again as I look at my watch; it's now two-thirty. I have been standing in the squad room doorway for half an hour in complete silence without knowing it, and even so, it feels like a hell of a lot longer. Thunder now cracks loudly in the distance, and lightning flashes a few seconds later, intimidating, but beautiful in its own right. The rainstorm I had been watching earlier has managed to turn into a full-fledged thunderstorm, and I watch, somewhat fascinated by how quickly things can change, though I know I should already know that in a moment, everything can change. I guess I never really thought about it until now…or maybe I have allowed myself to become so disillusioned about everything that I don't see anything wrong with the way things are. Maybe I should leave. Maybe I should just wake the kids up when I go home, tell them to pack a bag, and drive until I become too tired, or until I find a place that will allow me to sort out my thoughts. I twist my wedding ring around my finger, suddenly skittish about being here. Something tells me that I should just go; that I should never have come in the first place. I am exhausted, and I want nothing more than to fall asleep, but I know that even if I go home and crawl underneath the covers in my bedroom, sleep will remain elusive.

I don't know how many times I've woken up in the middle of the night thinking that he's right beside me, only to find a note on the bedside table, explaining why he's not there…and that's only some of the time. Most of the time, there is no note, and I am left wondering whether or not he's all right until he finally calls at some ungodly hour…but I'm always awake to answer the phone. He tells me that I should be asleep, and that I could just as easily check the answering machine in the morning, and it's all I can do not to snap at him for it. He has no idea how worried I've been; he's been here the entire time, perfectly fine, and this is one of those times where there was no note, and no 'reassuring' phone call. I often wonder whether or not I am invisible to him, because it seems as if he doesn't see me anymore, but I know that he hears me, otherwise any relationship we have, or maybe even had, would be practically nonexistent. I look at my watch again as the storm raging outside quiets down; it's three o'clock now. I've been here for an hour, and I still cannot bring myself to break the connection that seems to be holding the four detectives in front of me together. At this realization, I finally turn so that my back is facing them, for some reason fighting back tears as I make my way down the empty, dimly-lit precinct hallways.

I can hear footsteps resonating, but I cannot identify them, and I know that they are not my own.

"Katherine." I stop. Elliot is standing behind me now, but I don't feel like facing him. I am so tired, broken, and lost…I can't locate my thoughts, so I go with my instinct.

"Did you just notice me?" It was more of a statement than a question, a hollow one, devoid of any feeling.

"Yes. Why? Were you here long?"

I stand there silent, facing the window, him behind me. I see past the reflection and the city. I am lost in a pool of black—the color is a beautiful reflection of my soul. And rain. Tears. Lightning. Anger. Thunder. My soul shattering—the sound of my heart breaking. I slow down, and I can feel my eyes glaze over. I am gone, everything is moving so fast except for me. I feel sluggish.

"Kathy?" Elliot sounds worried and his words echo in my head.

"Come home, El." I whisper, my words raspy. My vision slams back into my head. I look at Elliot's reflection. He seems genuinely concerned…how ironic. He never seemed to care before whether or not I came down here to tell him to come home, but now he does. Now that I've been here for nearly two hours…now that he finally realizes we haven't said a word to each other in nearly three days…now he cares. The thought irritates me somewhat, and a sudden desire to turn and smack him comes. I close my eyes until it goes away.

"Are you all right?" he asks. Inwardly, I shake my head, but instead of conveying how I'm really feeling, I nod. I'm more than upset now…I don't know what I'm feeling anymore. I'm probably in no state to drive anywhere, but I just want to get away from here…away from all of this…away from knowing of something that I will never be able to understand. I start to walk again, and he follows.

"Why are you following me?" I demand suddenly, turning to face him. "Go back to your squad room. You know you want to." To this, he gives me a pained look, and that sudden desire to smack him comes back. I bite my lip to keep from going through with it…so hard that after a few seconds, the bitter, metallic taste of blood meets my tongue. I swallow nervously, hoping that he won't notice, but he does.

"You're bleeding." he says. I give him a look; he doesn't need to tell me that I'm bleeding, I already know. A hurt look crosses his face for a split second, and then, another question comes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I smirk; as if he doesn't know why I'm looking at him this way. He seems genuinely clueless as to why, though, and I find that I can't keep myself from answering.

"You have no idea how much I hate you right now, do you?" My words hit him like I've actually smacked him…that much I can tell from the look on his face. He doesn't answer the question, and I take some sort of twisted pleasure in knowing that I've managed to hurt him.

"You know I'd come home if I could." he says finally. I shake my head in disbelief, turning away from him as I continue to walk.

"Don't lie to me." He still continues to follow me, despite the fact that I've already snapped at him to go back to the squad room. I can tell that he really does want to go back, and the sudden thought that he's just doing this to annoy me crosses my mind.

"I'm not lying to you." he says. His voice holds a note of irritation, and I can tell that he's beginning to get mad at me.

"Yeah, right." I say, continuing on my way towards the front of the precinct. He grabs my shoulder, and I lose my balance, falling backwards against him.

"Let me go." I snap. He glares at me, but doesn't let go. I turn slightly so that I can see his face, and in his eyes, I see a look that I've never seen before. It scares me, but not enough so that I don't continue to struggle against him.

"We are not going to have another shouting match in this precinct." he tells me. I scowl back at him.

"Why? Because you hold this place more sacred than your home?" I demand. "You don't give a damn about anything but closing these cases, and all the while, you've got four kids at home wanting to see you, and you couldn't care less about them."

The last thing I expect is to find myself the wall behind me with his face inches from mine, but that's exactly what happens. He's never hit me before, and I know he's not going to, but I can't help but think that he's mad enough to do so right now. The thought scares me, and I try to move, but he's got me pinned.

"Don't ever say that again." he says, his voice dangerously low.

"You've forgotten your amendments," I taunt, "I can say whatever I want. It's called 'freedom of speech', remember?"

"I don't want to get into this with you. Not here."

"Oh, so you'd rather yell at me at home, where our kids can hear every damn word we say?"

That sudden pained look flashes for half an instant. He clenches his teeth and closes his eyes. I know that this is a sign of internal conflict. He leans his head against mine and opens his eyes –looking straight into my own. I can see my eyes reflecting in his. We wear the same hopeless, pained expression.

"Let's go home," he says.

"Ok." It seems that however hard we try, here, in a place of perverted deeds, the only way we can connect is pain.

Author's Notes: Ok…like most of the stories that come out of me, this one came out of nowhere…so….like you guys should already know, LOSVU isn't mine, nor will it ever be…and Marshmellowluvr, usual thanks for editing.


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